A Thank You

One day more I pass through my door
and am reminded of all the pain you have caused.
How you were the fire that scorched
even my smallest achievements to ashes
and then would add alcohol to the flame and watch it
burn, burn, burn.

I have not thought of you in months, mind you.
(In fact, I seldom do.)
And it has been a very enjoyable thing: 
To not have somebody pushing you down until
you can no longer breathe, and feel that nothing will
ever be the same.

Which it won’t, obviously, but is that a bad thing?
To know that I will never reacquaint that realm?
Your followers look at me with bewildered eyes
as they judge my departure with the harshest of conclusions --
Of course, you did nothing to set them straight.

You need them to think that you are not who you are,
because what you are is quite a terrible sight.
You are a nightmare and demon that haunted my worst dreams --
But surely day surpasses night.

Our history is penned on my innermost heart,
and though only we will know our true story --
I escaped your dungeon where you left me to anguish
and, as you can see, went on to much more important things.

But what has become of you, monster?
Where does this day leave you, slime?
Shall I feign a smile and await your answer?
No, I have newer paths to forge.

But whenever I am faced with a troublesome day,
and whenever I think I’ve taken on too much,
This, dear beast, I can honestly say with truth and no remorse.
I am glad I have known you, simply for this:
It's easier to plow through the days,
knowing I have defeating you on my resume.

The Dandelion Song

The Dandelion lady approached
the seductive patch of valley
that she so often traveled to
on windy days like this.

Her valley was a wonder
known only to herself.
Here she could weed out the
ignorant screams of what she should be.
Here -- she was what she was, and that was beautiful.

To her right was her rainbow of
dreams unimagined,
Slightly to her left was her garden
of unthought wishes,
And there she stood, dead in the middle,
with twigs and leaves woven in her tousled hair.

She took in a deep breath,
as she always did,
holding out her arms as if to
welcome some unknown spirit into
a warm embrace --
And then she would sing.

This song uttered silent words
unknown to the average man.
You see, he would not understand.
He would never know the meaning.
This song was the heart of the
Dandelion lady being free at last.

Her voice drifted through the billowing breeze,
weaving in the wind like a soft, cool whisper.
In and out of villages it went,
leaving roots where her heart felt contentment.

Her song was one of joy and of sorrow,
of lessons learned and new beginnings.
Her lyrics lingered in the air like newborn wishes,
and her melody whispered words of sweet renewal.
She brought hope, worth, and perseverance
to those who would listen to her song.

On windy days she makes her journey,
through rivers wide and forests tall,
to bring news of heads held high
to the lucky few who are wise enough to listen
to her Dandelion song.

An old poem I forgot about

(This is a poem I wrote what seems an era ago, but only found again today. Though this time is well behind me, I still felt obligated (if that's the word) to share.)

History repeats itself,
and here’s exhibit A.
The story of the girl,
and the boy who took her heart away.

It’s no surprise,
we’ve been here before.
Though bridges were burned and
numbers lost -- here we are again.

It’s frustrating --
To walk into a trap willingly.
To ignorantly hold out your heart
as if to say, “Stomp on it.”

Why do we do it?
Why do we put ourselves in
situations that we know can
only end up in flames?

Maybe it is the blind belief
that one day it will stop hurting.
That with each break,
the shell will regrow stronger
and more impenetrable than the last.

Or maybe one day,
after all the rips and tears and pain
that we've selflessly submitted to --
Maybe one day we will no longer be able
to feel a thing.

A Poem in July

I’m ready for the breeze
between the balding trees,
as the crickets chirp a melody
of softly fallen leaves.

I’m dreaming of the smells
of fresh baked pumpkin pie
next to Yankee candles burning
as a quilt warms my feet and I.

I’m yearning for the sweatshirts
to keep me warm outside,
as I stroll down a leafy lane,
changing each windy tide.

I want the orange atmosphere
that makes everything smell like fire
burning in the chimney
that warms those who’ve tired.

I wish for the painted sunset
that soars across the sky,
and yellowed fields swaying
to the wild bird’s lullaby.

I’m ready for the Fall
That chilly Autumn brings.
Of the kinder sun that warms you
Instead of summer when it stings.

Friday Night

Clowns with painted faces
Laugh with their high pitched voices,
As droopy-eyed Jackals explore
Dark spaces with their prying hands.
The night is young but it will grow old fast
As the hungry come out for the night.

Fireworks boom through speakers as
Potion hoists up a red-yellow tent.
The volunteers pour in with high expectations
and before long discover
they’ve entered The Circus of Superficiality.

Card games play tricks introduced by
crafty magicians who shuffle out
headaches and laughs.
They wink to the right at hiccuping girls
who hardly keep their balancing acts.

The mixing of species starts to descend
as the clock hand passes champagne.
The music surrounds our festival town
And soon comes the start of the game
Of who can keep their wits about them.

Psychics tell secrets in shady bathrooms
To females with stenciled on smiles.
The musician strums his guitar while
singing a heart’s ballad of faith and trust,
smirking as he successfully hypnotizes
tomorrow’s misfortune.

The Ugliest Woman gets a makeover of
whiskey and rum, as the lions
come out for the night.
Couples disappear through holes in the wall
as illusion takes over their sight.

As stars go to bed the freak show goes on
But the Elephant stands in the corner.
He's alone in the room and grows bored of the scene
So he finally gathers his trunk and
returns to his natural habitat.

Sun comes to close the chaotic campaign
and the audience leaves in a trace.
They return to their beds to wake
with beating heads before they come back
tomorrow for the big finale.

A Fairytale Retold

** This was a short piece that was assigned for a writing class online. I liked it enough that I thought I would post it here. A reinterpretation of Cinderella **

I know what everybody says about me, you know. I’ve read the storybooks and heard the fairytales. I’m the villain. I’m the Evil Stepmother. I tried to steal Cinderella’s happily ever after. But they’ve got it all wrong. I never tried to steal her happily ever after; I tried to save her from it.

 I’m not one to deny that I did neglect the girl once her father had passed, for that I will humbly take the blame. I am not perfect. It is just, after he died, it was all I could do not to run away. He was the love of my life, even if I was not his. His, of course, was Ella’s mother. I settled to be his second best – his replacement – however, because I was in a dream. He was my knight, my swordsman, my prince – and I would love him always. Because I loved him, I promised to love her. And I tried, I really did. But he never looked at me with the gaze that he peered on his daughter with. That look of true, eternal, everlasting love that he always bestowed on her. It would never belong to me, and I came to (perhaps undeservedly) resent her for it.

 I, the witch that I am, am at fault for crowing Ella with her notorious nickname. Cinderella. I muttered it under my breath one day when she came inside covered from head to toe in soot. It was not meant to be heard by anybody, but my daughter did hear and the nickname traveled throughout the house. My late husband never got wind of the foul nickname, and for that I am forever thankful.

 After he passed, I was grief stricken. I spent days, months, maybe even a year locked up in my bedroom unable to muster the energy to even walk about the grounds. It felt as though a hole had taken the place of my heart, and I strived for something to live for day in and day out. I couldn’t look at Ella because I could see her father’ s eyes looking back at me. Her skin was the same color, and she had the same smile. Every time she came to serve me a meal, I felt a stab of loneliness penetrate throughout my entire body. I began to associate Cinderella with this feeling of extreme and unimaginable pain and emptiness. Because of this, our relationship became strained. We became strangers, and our eyes only met by accident.

 I know Ella knew deep down that I did not hate her or wish her harm. I think she understood my reasons for distance. In my presence, she would keep her head down and tend to chores in attempt to keep me sane. Though we seldom spoke, I did begin to grow a sort of affection for the girl. I may not have loved her, but I did respect and appreciate that she would go through all the trouble she did in attempt to keep me happy. So, as a gesture of my thanks, one night I invited her to a ball being thrown by the royal family in the Kingdom. She graciously accepted.

 If it was not for this moment, Ella and I may have someday grown closer than acquaintances. Alas, she had to come down those stairs. In that moment, everything was still except for Ella. She slowly descended down the emerald carpet in a beautiful peach pastel gown that she said was her mothers. I took in her appearance, and the pang of her father’s death erupted so deeply in my stomach, that it felt just like the moment I had seen him die. Only this time, I was looking at her mother. Instead of the daughter my late husband left behind, I only saw the remainder of the woman I would never be and never was. His first wife. Her golden hair, her eloquent presence, and her rosebud cheeks. This was the woman that I would always fall short of being. This is when I snapped. In a fit of rage, I tore the ruffles and the ribbons of the gown to the floor, leaving Ella in rags before my daughters and myself. She had tears streaming down her face in disbelief, and I blinked back tears of hatred, confusion, and regret as I turned out the door.

 As if by assistance of some magical force, Ella was before me not two hours later in a diamond speckled blue ball gown and glass slippers. I admit that my conscious was relieved that I saw her dancing before me, as remorse was slowly but surely slithering its way through my body. She was the belle of the ball, even outshining my two daughters. I am even the one who sneakily closed the curtains to give her and the man she was dancing with some privacy. It was minutes later that I found out that man was the Prince of the royal family. They were dancing in the middle of the floor, which had backed into a surrounding circle, when the clock stuck midnight. Startled by the clanging of bells, Ella looked up and our eyes met. Fear of rehashing events earlier of the night must have soared through her, as terror engulfed her sea blue eyes. She deserted the floor without saying a word, only leaving behind a glass slipper. The Prince picked it up and dashed after, but I knew he would not reach her in time.

 Ella stayed cooped up in her room for days after the ball, ignoring my attempts to apologize for my behavior. It was not until word came that the Prince was sending out a search for the girl with the glass slipper that I decided to make one final attempt. She cried words of wanting to be left alone and refused to listen to my news. It was then that I began to understand what true love felt like. For me, it was significant pain and effort put forth to get through a day without my love. For her, it was crying on her bed in terror. I did not wish her my same fate of unhappiness once happily ever after ran out, so I did something rash. I silently took out the key form my dress pocket and locked her door – protecting her from the disappointment of her happily ever after.

 One the Prince came, he pointlessly attempted to try the glass slipper on the oversized feet of my daughters, knowing that they were not the girl he danced with. I can only assume that Ella saw him leaving out the door form her window, because she began to bang and yell to be let out of her bedchamber. I did not respond. I was saving her from disappointment from being left alone for eternity. From being left behind. I really was only trying to protect her. To this day, I do not know how she escaped from her room, but minutes later she came sprinting down the stairs to catch her Prince and meet her fate. He climbed out of the carriage and swooped her in his arms. They shared true love’s first kiss and prepared to ride off into the sunset, but first Cinderella came inside to retrieve her spare slipper.

 As she walked out my door for the last time, she turned at the threshold and looked me straight in the eye. I saw her father, her mother, and a terrified girl attempting to be a brave woman. I bowed my head but her gaze held still. After about half a minute, her eyes narrowed into a glare, her head turned forth and she was gone forever.

 This is how I became the Evil Stepmother. I never spoke to Ella again. I do not blame her for never returning to me, as I certainly do not deserve it. As I near my final days, however, I just want someone to know. I just want someone to know that I am not a witch, a terror, or an evil queen. I am only a heart-broken old woman. I merely tried to save a girl from my fate. We do not think of death when we think of happily ever after, but we always forget that one of the couple is left behind to mourn the other. That person was I when her father died. I have faced years of sadness and loneliness that I wish on no one, not even the person who reminded me of my state the most. Though she will never hear it, I extend my deepest apology, Ella. I wish you the happily ever after, but I certainly do not wish you what comes after.

The Red Lady

She is woman’s best kept secret, and a man’s worst nightmare. It is her job to unmask the unfaithful husband for the suspicious, middle-aged woman. They are always middle-aged, she notes. The young are too in love to suspect anything, and the old are too familiar to admit anything has changed. Yes, always middle-aged. She is the woman with the scarlet lips, the seductress with the bewildering gaze, and the nail in every dwindling marriage’s coffin.

In a time where eyes wander, and chivalrous actions are eliminated with aging years, the men that reside in the Red Lady’s dark and dim town have grown accustomed to a certain way of living. This certain way of living has been hidden from their wives of ten or fifteen years, because surely, they all remark, the woman just wouldn’t understand. There are secret pubs hidden in lightless alleyways. Here, the suits hunker in, hungry for some reminder of what it is – how it feels – to be young again.

She knows from her long list of clientele that nearly every man who has succumbed to the glimmering dancers and promiscuous regulars of the pubs begins unraveling his marriage in the same, unfortunate way. Whether sparked from an argument or a so-called dry spell, every man who eventually comes into the Red Lady’s company begrudgingly wanders down the cobblestone walkway, checking behind his shoulder every couple of minutes – knowing that what he is doing is wrong. Some stop and turn around. These are the men she never meets. They turn around and return home to their wives. She smiles at them. The others, well, she smiles at them, too. She is paid to do so, after all.

The Red Lady is infamous among the circles of women throughout the towering city. Some loathe her, but most only pretended to. They wickedly discuss her profession over afternoon tea while their husbands are off drinking at various country clubs. Whether sincere or secretly false, all women promise the others that the Red Lady is simply a despicable last resort for a desperate, lonely old hag of a woman. They constantly scoff at the pathetic attempts some women supposedly make to keep their husbands from growing bored and moving on. “How hard can it possibly be?” some laugh. “Twelve years after our wedding day and dear Henry still acts as if we are on our honeymoon!” They say this, but most don’t mean it. If the Red Lady is broached in conversation, it is sure that at least one woman in the gathering is suspecting the worst of her marriage. It is even more likely that another woman in the group has once called on the Red Lady to discover the truth about hers. When the time is right and while others are gossiping about the latest trivial topic, this is when the scorned woman passes on the Red Lady’s information to the potential client. No words are ever said, merely a glint in the eye and a slipping of a card beneath a laced tablecloth. After this, the two resume the meaningless gossip, but the potential client always seems to duck out early – for she has a very important appointment to make. No, every woman who suspects her husband of adultery sometimes considers hiring the Red Woman for an inspection. A test, if you will.

Though sometimes accused by pearled woman during afternoon tea, the Red Lady is not a prostitute. Certainly not, she would remind herself when her job sometimes becomes too much. No, the Scarlet Woman’s job is to confirm that the husband is willing to act, but there is a special, concrete, irrevocable rule that once guilt is proven, her job is done. The Lady occasionally admits that she finds a wicked enjoyment in leaving her suspects confused and bewildered on whatever surface they are on. The bed, the couch, the kitchen table. She rolls her eyes at the thought. She has been everywhere, but that really doesn’t matter. The important thing is that she answers the question for her fellow female. Did he or didn’t he is not her conquest, her job is to simply answer would he or wouldn’t he.

What makes the Red Lady so popular amongst the females and so feared (yet obviously not enough, she constantly thought) amongst males is that she is undetectable, but also inescapable. Her ever-changing appearance only holds one consistency. Her red lips. Even with this trait, the Red Woman is never discovered. After all, it was not as if she is the only woman in the shadowy pubs that graces her lips with the illustrious shade of rose. The reason the Scarlet Woman is so infamous, legendary, feared, and sought after is that her sinful shade of red proves permanent. Once her color graces the skin of her male subject, it stays there forever. The Red Woman’s mark is impossible to explain, impossible to erase, and impossible to forget.

Her gift is the ultimate regrettable tattoo. Once marked, men are scarred forever. Every woman knows his character. The men she marks always die alone. Some drink themselves into oblivion, and some even commit suicide out of humiliation. Whatever the case, each man walks the earth with a scarlet reminder that he has broken the most sacred vow, and that no woman can ever forgive him for that. There is an unspoken understanding amongst women that a Red Man is not to be touched. They all silently agree that a Red Man should die alone, disgraced and unloved.

Some would argue that this is a harsh punishment, and that no individual should be condemned to such a living hell. Those who understand, however, quizzically and unaffectedly recite, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Every conquest is the same. After the first twenty assignments, her men became faceless. They have no identities, and she came to look at her Red Men as a personification of an idea – of a type of revenge – and not an actual individual. You could say that, once the Red Lady leaves her doors for the night, she puts herself in a trance. She becomes graceful and alluring, sexy and irresistible.

Tonight was of the same insignificance. She had met with a trench-coated woman a few days back. This woman, the Red Lady guessed to be in her mid-forties, suspected her husband of sixteen years of infidelity.

“I followed him once,” she murmured over coffee. “Down an alleyway, but he disappeared into a disgusting whole in the wall. I peered inside before I returned home. It was filled with smoke, and horrible jazz music was echoing off the walls. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was in there. I could see girls though. Dozens of them. All little sluts dancing around in sequined dresses – slits up to here and necklines down to there! It was abysmal, and my husband spent hours in there! He didn’t return home until three thirty! He said he had a late work meeting. Ha! Late work meeting… Does he think I’m an idiot? Working. Until three thirty in the god damn morning. He’s cheating. That’s what it is. Behind my back and lying to my face!”

They always go on like this, but the Scarlet Woman never stops them. It is therapy, she feels. These women who come to her, she thought, must constantly hide behind painful, forced smiles. It wells up, it does. Until they finally meet with her, and then it all spills out. Betrayal, disloyalty, distrust. That is a lot to keep inside. For any woman it would simply be too much! The Red Lady listens behind an auburn wig and black sunglasses, for even those who come to her never learn her true identity.

A deal is met and the guidelines are simple: the Red Lady meets the husband two nights later. She gives him the opportunity to make a pass at her, and if he does, she responds willingly. She suggests that they go somewhere more private, and the man takes her to whatever destination he proposes. Then his test would begin. A kiss on the cheek meant he brought her there, a kiss on the lips meant the obvious, a kiss on the neck meant he removed her dress, and a kiss on the chest meant he moved her to the bed (or couch, or kitchen table). Four kisses, all poisonous, all permanent. Once the question of would he or wouldn’t he is answered, the Red Woman gathers her dress and her handbag, and disappears into the night; leaving the man with the answers to a woman with many burning questions.

On nights when she is scheduled to work, the Scarlet Woman goes through the same routine. Tonight she is a longhaired brunette. Her wig cascades down her shoulders in flowing waves, highlighting her sea blue eyes (for the contact lenses she chooses to wear disguise her true shade). She carefully applies her eye shadow and blush, transforming herself into an enchanting beauty. Looking in the mirror, she chuckles. Even she doesn’t recognize herself. Once her makeup, with the exception of her lips, is done, the Red Lady pours herself a tall glass of champagne. She takes a sip, and her face puckers at the bubbles as they meet her lips. From here she descends into her closet. Tonight, she thinks, feels like an emerald night. She takes another sip of champagne and quirks a smile as she digs into the back of her organized closet. She pulls out a long, emerald evening gown accented with black lace. “One of my favorites!” she says to her cat that lounges in a broken drawer. The cat yawns and makes minimal acknowledgement. “Oh fine,” laughs the Red Lady as she finishes her glass. “Time for another.”

She pours herself another tall glass before slipping out of whatever lounge outfit she has been wearing. At this point, she usually turns on whatever classical music she is feeling for the night. She always listens to classical music when she has to work, for it helps get her into character. Tonight she chooses to wear black lace undergarments to match the black lace on her gown. Though her job does bring anger and sorrow and generally bad news to those involved, the Red Lady still finds enjoyment in dressing up for the night. It also makes it easier to drink champagne before her assignment. Yes, lots of champagne. “Not too much!” she hiccups to her cat. “But just enough!” At this point, the Lady eases into her silk emerald dress, and then into her black-heeled shoes. Tonight, she decides on a peacock-feathered handbag to accompany her. She feels especially alluring this evening.

As the time nears to leave, the champagne brings her character in full swing, and the Lady has transformed into a mysterious beauty. She takes a final glance in the mirror, blinking at the usual unfamiliarity. With time drizzling away, the Lady makes her way around her large apartment, running her fingers over turned down photo frames before taking a few more long sips of champagne. It really is time to clean this place out, she thinks. One final touch, she remembers, and opens a gold-handled drawer lined with purple velvet. In this drawer lies her weapon. The Red Mark. Her stamp, the wife’s suspicion, and the husband’s confirmation. She grasps the silver canister around her black nails and leans into the mirror. She’s focused, as it must be perfect. The room seems to go silent as she applies. First the bottom lip, then the top. With this kind of lipstick, there is no need to blot. She long ago outgrew the tendency to blow a kiss at the mirror as she went out the door. No, she simply steps back and recounts her appearance. She blinks, sighs, then grabs her feathered handbag and is out the door.

She orders a martini tonight, and plays with the olives in her glass as she surfs the room for her assignment. The room blurs with clouds of smoke and intoxicated laughter. Women are falling into the laps of top-hatted men, and their painted fingers loosen the neckties of the bumbling businessmen. As the night progresses, the room seems to get all the more dim as scandal sets sail throughout and privacy is desired. Finally, the Red Lady sees her target walk into the pub. She catches his eye from across the room and quickly shoots her head back to her olives, blushing at the instant attraction. She is in full character now. Her faceless man smirks and glides toward her and places one elbow on the bar rail. The Lady bats her eyes and dips her chin to touch her bare shoulder before breathing a sultry, “I didn’t mean for you to see me looking your way.”

At this point she always locks eyes with her assignment, assessing how far she predicts the night to go. Occasionally, and sometimes refreshingly, her assignment gets nervous and confesses that he is married. This is as far as her conquest goes, and the man leaves unmarked. Once in a blue moon, a man wanders into the pub, thinking he will be able to go through with the usual night of so many other businessmen, but cannot seem to let himself. He leaves and returns to his relieved wife, renewing the commitment to the marriage. This night, however, was not one of those nights.

The faceless man runs two fingers down the Red Lady’s bare arm before grazing her knuckles with his thumb. That’ll be divorce. She smiles over shaded eyes.

“You have the most beautiful eyes, Miss…?” he begins.

“Scarlet,” she answers.

“Ah,” his eyes trail to her lips. “How terribly fitting, my lady.”

He brings her hand up and holds it in front of his mouth. He waits for a response. The Red Lady holds her gaze and takes a step forward, allowing her hand to meet the man’s lips. A kiss on the hand, she notes. He runs his thumb over her knuckles again before pulling her closer, inches from her face.

“Why don’t we go somewhere a little more private?” she recites.

“I know just the place,” he breathes.

He turns and leads her by the hand out of the pub door. One kiss on the cheek. They walk for five minutes before coming to a thin alley that rivals the shady atmosphere of the alley outside the pub. The Lady is not alarmed, however, as many of her assignments have brought her to darker places than this. The man pushes the Scarlet Woman up against the browning brick of the alley wall and begins kissing her neck.

“Wait!” she breathes, and the man stops. The woman locks eyes with the gentleman and cracks a soft smile. She leans forward and plants a scarlet kiss on his cheek. One, she thinks. He gazes back and laughs.

“You are intoxicating,” he breathes.

“No, that would be whatever you consumed at that pub,” she whispers.

He pulls back and looks her up and down, running his hand down the silk of her dress. He stops as he reaches her naval and runs his fingers back and forth over the area as if he is debating something in his head. His commitment to his wife, perhaps. Are you going to run?, she thinks. The man’s black eyes trail back up from the dress to the Lady’s red lips. “Scarlet…” he whispers and he leans forward and roughly kisses her, pinning her hands to the damp wall and making her drop her peacock feathered bag. Two, she counts.

The Red Woman accepts the kisses of the faceless assignment for a small amount of time before pulling away with a small, rehearsed sigh. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing…” she pretends, but the faceless man is smart enough to know that any woman found in the previous alleyway does usually do this sort of thing. The Scarlet Woman knows this, too, of course. The man pauses and leans over the Red Lady with his hand against the wall, running his free hand through his greased hair. He is not looking at her eyes, but down.

“Just tonight,” he lies.

“Just tonight,” she confirms.

The man takes a step forward, completely eliminating the space between the Lady and himself. His two fingers rise up to her shoulder, gliding the beaded black strap off of her collarbone. He huffs as he turns her around, running his hand down to the small of her bare back. Slowly, he unzips her long, emerald dress. He eases off the other strap and her dress falls to the cobblestone floor, leaving her in nothing but her laced underwear. She turns around and puts her hands on his chest before unbuttoning the top collar of his shirt. She rises up on her toes and falls into the man, planting one more scarlet mark on his neck. Three, she tallies.

The man steps back to undo his belt buckle. He clumsily undoes the rest of his buttons, and the Lady helps off his shirt. He pulls her into him, and the Scarlet Woman removes the belt. Zip. And the pants meet the ground.

“Here?” she pretends to be perplexed, but isn’t.

“Here,” he growls.

“Here,” she repeats. “Now?”

“Now.”

The Scarlet Woman bats her eyes and moves forward again. Her hands move over her final placement, his chest – the fourth kiss – and she leans in and plants her final mark. The man groans, and the Red Woman bemuses that his noise marks his transformation into a Red Man. Four. Her work here is done. She steps back without word, and retraces her prints back into the hole of her emerald dress. “What are you doing?” asks the man, bewildered.

With one swift motion, the Lady is dressed again. She leans up to gaze at her completed assignment, who is completely dumbfounded. She hides a smirk as she calculates his emotions to be an erupting mix of confusion, frustration, anger, and simmering humiliation. Finally, she bends down and picks up her peacock-feathered handbag. She exits with a simple nod, leaving yet another confused and damned husband in her rear view.

The Scarlet Woman returns home, removes her wig and contacts, then finally her make-up, revealing her true identity. She breathes a sigh of relief and crawls into her large, comfortable king bed next to her yellow cat.

She never does follow-ups with clients because she knows that it is not necessary. If a man comes home tattooed with scarlet, there is no need to rehash agreement details. Though temporarily unhappy when confirmed with reality, her customers always get what they asked for. A scarlet answer to would he or wouldn’t he. She was man’s worst nightmare, and woman’s best kept secret. She turns toward her window at the sound of screaming drunkards occupying the streets. It is awful out there, and she just added one more Red Man to that hell. She shifts away and pets her snoozing companion.

“Ah well,” she sighs. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

The cat purrs back in agreement and the Scarlet Woman peers over at a turned down photo frame before falling into a heavy sleep.